


I sure hope someone doesn't kidnap my Archivist...

by anonone



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Jonathan Sims, Bondage, Chair Bondage, Chair Sex, Dildos, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Edging, F/M, Kidnapping, Other, Rope Bondage, lotion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24064750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonone/pseuds/anonone
Summary: Jon felt eyes on him, and not the normal ceaseless watcher sort of eyes he’d grown used to, the eyes of a thousand wax manequins, eyes that were...wrong. He squirmed under the gaze he couldn’t see but knew was there. the cold chamber quiet but for the low hum of the chained coffin. Jon pushed the sound from his mind, he didn’t like the way it called him, dragged his attention to itself.
Kudos: 26





	I sure hope someone doesn't kidnap my Archivist...

Jon felt eyes on him, and not the normal ceaseless watcher sort of eyes he’d grown used to, the eyes of a thousand wax manequins, eyes that were...wrong. He squirmed under the gaze he couldn’t see but knew was there. The cold chamber quiet but for the low hum of the chained coffin. Jon pushed the sound from his mind, he didn’t like the way it called him, dragged his attention to itself.  
The creek of a door drew his attention, his head snapped up in an aproximation of where he thought the footsteps were coming from. The dim light stung his eyes as the blindfold was ripped off and he was greeted by the sight of nickola orsinovs grinning face. She- it, Jon reminded himself, that thing wasn’t human, was holding a bottle of what appeared to be lotion, Jon didn’t need knowing powers to get the idea. Orsinov chuckled, “that’s right Archivist, don’t resist.” Jon did his best to lean away from the cold dead touch of plastic hands, pressed back into the chair he was bound to as far as he could, but the ropes held him fast and the gag stoppered his questions. His powerlessness rolled over him like waves, pushing him down, keeping him in the chair more than the ropes ever could. He felt hands smother lotion all over his face and down his neck, then the hands started to make their way further down. No. Jons face reddened as his shirt was ripped clean off his body, he made a low rumble of protest through the gag which was ignored with a chuckle. “There’s no point in struggling Archivist, were doing this for your own good.” there was a mirth in that voice that Jon really didn’t like. Jon shuddered at his sheer helplessness as unwanted hands ran up and down his chest, massaging him, squeezing his nipples, touching him in ways he really didn’t want to be touched, he didn’t like being naked. He felt exposed. Was this how people felt when he ripped statements from them? Naked and vulnerable for everyone to see? Maybe he deserved this. His shoulders slumped as guilty sobs racked his body, much to the amusement of Orsinov.  
To Jon’s horror the hands started to creep further down, no. no! not there, please! This was all too much, too unfamiliar, perhaps, the thought occurred somewhere in the back of his mind, that was the point. His screamed cries of protest fell on deaf plastic ears and Orsinov just laughed as she yanked his trousers down and started rubbing lotion into Jon exposed genitals. Tears pricked hot in Jons eyes and burned down his face “please!” he muffled through the gag. Orsinov chuckled, “Well if you’d have taken better care of your skin, we wouldn’t have to be doing this now would we? As I said before Jon, it’s for your own good. Now stop squirming.”  
It was torturous. slow and methodical, Orsinov set a maddeningly glacial pace. Hot shame streamed down Jons face as he felt the blood rush to his cock. This wasn’t right, he didn’t want this. After hours of torturous edging the hands suddenly retracted. Leaving Jon shuddering and suddenly missing the cool plastic touch, which he hated himself for. His body betrayed him, hips bucking, trying to fuck thin air, desperate now for any friction, an uncontrollable whine escaped him, god it sounded pathetic even to his ears, fresh shame washed over him, The mannequins watchful eyes and Orsinov's laughter burned into his flayed open soul. He just wanted it to be over.  
Orsinov returned with something that looked like...horror and realization dawned on Jons face as she got closer, he wriggled desperately, pulling with all his might at the ropes..  
“we have to get all the skin Jon.”  
In her hand Orsinov held a rather sizeable dildo which she was rubbing lotion onto.  
At that, something in Jons mind snapped, he thrashed against the ropes but Nickola was surprisingly strong and he was weak and dizzy with sleep deprivation, hunger and nicotine withdrawal. She lifted his hips and guided him onto the dildo. A pathetic whimper bubbled out of Jons lips as the dildo slid into him, stretched painfully around it, he felt as if he were being torn in two. It felt wrong. Jon was a blubbering mess as the mannequin took his hips and slid him relentlessly up and down the dildo over and over again. Begging and begging her to stop, please just make it stop! He couldn’t think, couldn’t fucking breathe. It was all just too much. Nicola took his softening cock in hand and rubbed more lotion in. “What’s wrong with you? Humans are supposed to enjoy this sort of thing. Has the eye got you so far in it’s grip that you’ve lost your humanity that much?” A swell of anger hit Jon like a train, he wanted to scream that his asexuality had nothing to do with the eye and that sex wasn’t the be all and fucking end all of the human experience! But the gag muffled any and all intelligibility. It was then that the sheer strangeness of the situation forced a desperate sort of laugh out of Jon, of all the things he'd expect from a kidnapping, being wanked by a bigoted mannequin was just so out there he kind of... lost it. The mirthless ragged laughter soon gave way to quiet sobbing at Orsinov's merciless, relentless hands. It'd been weeks since he'd had a statement and the all consuming ravounousness to take and impart knowledge suddenly overwhelmed him, greater than the need for physical pleasure could ever be. Not being understood, not being seen, is what eventually undid him, made him feel so far away from the eye, like he was staring at the scene before him through a tunnel. All the tension fled his sore muscles and he was like compliant putty in Orsinovs hands for the rest of the session, weak and limp, watching from far away.


End file.
